Three Keys

by Kelly Yang

  As Hank bid us a good night and clicked back to his room in his new leather shoes, my mom sat down on the sofa and lovingly stroked her new dress. “Okay, maybe it was a bit much, buying it in one go. Next time, I’ll put it on a payment plan on my credit card,” she muttered.

  My dad’s jaw dropped. “You applied for a credit card? I thought we talked about it!”

  “No, you talked about it. You decided,” my mom said, crossing her arms.

  My dad fumed as he walked over to the cash register. “You think all that money in there is ours?” he asked my mom. “It’s not ours. It belongs to many, many investors, all of whom need to get paid before we do.”

  “Yeah, and you always think about everyone else before your own wife!” Mom cried, reaching for a tissue. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “You guys!” I exclaimed. I was sick of all the fighting, and besides, as soon as Dad mentioned our investors, I remembered we had much bigger problems right now. “I have something to tell you.”

  My parents both looked up.

  “Lupe and her dad can’t be on our insurance plan,” I said.

  My dad looked taken aback. “Why not?” he asked.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, remembering that Lupe had sworn me to secrecy. “They … uh … they already got another one.”

  My dad took a seat on the couch next to my mom.

  “There’s got to be another plan we can enroll in,” my mom said. “One requiring fewer employees.”

  My dad shook his head. “The other plans all have high deductibles. We can’t afford them.” Softly, he said to my mom, his eyes downcast, “See, this is why we can’t just start living large. Our situation really hasn’t changed that much. We have to be responsible.”

  My mom held her soft satin dress tight in her hands and sighed.

  “Maybe tomorrow I can go and return it,” she said. Then she turned to my dad and asked hopefully, “Do you want to see me try it on?”

  My dad looked hesitantly at the dress.

  “She really looks great in it,” I said.

  “Okay,” my dad sighed. “But just try.”

  On Friday at school, Mrs. Welch passed back our essays on immigration from the first day. I was excited to see what I got. I had written about America being a nation of immigrants. Our founders were immigrants. They worked hard to create a country that would welcome everyone. It said so right on the Statue of Liberty.

  Cautiously, I turned my paper over, hoping to find an A or at least a B+. But there staring back at me was a big fat C.

  I blinked at the page. I didn’t get it. I was right back to where I started last year.

  I turned to Mrs. Welch, who was still handing back essays. She asked some of the students to repeat their names for her. As they did, a curious thing happened. Kareña said her name was Karina. Jorge called himself George. And Tomás said Thomas. Since when did they start saying their names so … white?

  After all the papers were passed out, Mrs. Welch went back to her seat. I looked down at the C, wondering whether I should just let it go. There wasn’t a note from Mrs. Welch about why I got what I got. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with what I said in class earlier in the week. I glanced over at Lupe, who was busy studying her own essay.

  At recess, I waited until everyone else was out of the class before hesitantly walking up to Mrs. Welch.

  “Um … Mrs. Welch … can I talk to you about my essay?” I asked.

  She looked up at me from her desk and took off her reading glasses.

  “What about it?” she asked.

  “I just … I was wondering why I got a C?”

  Mrs. Welch’s face tightened, like the lady at the checkout counter whenever my mom questioned her about giving her the wrong change.

  “It’s just that I thought I was good at writing. Last year, I even won—”

  “I know,” Mrs. Welch interrupted. “Mrs. Douglas told me before she moved away. But this is sixth grade. And I have higher expectations for what I consider an A paper.”

  I swallowed. Mrs. Welch returned to her grading, and I dragged myself out of the classroom. As soon as I spotted Lupe sitting under a tree and drawing in her sketch pad, I ran over and told her what Mrs. Welch had said.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she said. “You’ve been through this before. Last year, remember?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I was kind of hoping I’d start good this year, you know? And end up amazing.”

  “You will,” Lupe promised, shading in the trees in her drawing.

  I watched her as she sketched, wondering if I should say what had been on my mind ever since she’d told me her secret. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were undocumented?”

  Lupe put down her drawing pad and lay down on the grass. She put her hand under her head, and I stretched out next to her. We gazed up at the red and gold leaves that formed a roof over us. The wind blew and the colorful roof moved.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was different,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you to stop looking up to me.”

  “Oh, Lupe,” I said, flipping onto my stomach. “I still look up to you! I’ll always look up to you.”

  Lupe smiled. I plucked a blade of grass with my fingers.

  “What’s it like … to be undocumented?” I asked.

  Lupe was quiet a long time, playing with her drawing pencil in her fingers.

  “It’s like being a pencil, when everyone else is a pen,” she finally said. “You worry you can be erased anytime.”

  I was still thinking about Lupe’s words when Jason’s mom came to pick us up after school. Lupe dashed out of the parking lot as soon as she saw Mrs. Yao’s white Mercedes, desperate not to bump into her.

  “How was school?” Mrs. Yao asked.

  “It was okay,” I lied, climbing into the car. Though I was still pretty bummed about my C, the last people I wanted to tell my problems to were the Yaos. Jason climbed in, shoving our backpacks into the front seat so we’d have more space. Still, he sat alarmingly close to me.

  “Wait till you hear what I have planned for us,” he said with a grin.

  Jason’s house was even bigger than I remembered. As he gave me a tour, I found myself wondering how many people could sleep in each room and how much we could charge if we rented it out. Definitely more than twenty dollars a night.

  Jason’s room had a pinball machine, a big-screen TV hooked up to a video-game console, and a fish tank that spanned one entire wall. There was even a reading nook by the window. A chair with a built-in bookshelf full of books, right under the seat, sat invitingly in the sun.

  “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” I said, sitting down on the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable.

  “I don’t really use it,” he said. “If you want it, you can have it!”

  “What?” I shook my head.

  “No, I’m serious. If you see anything you like, just take it.” Then Jason started taking books out of his book chair and handing them to me. “Here, take ’em.”

  I pushed them back. “Jason, I’m not here to take your stuff.”

  Jason blushed. There was a moment of silence.

  “Right,” he said at last. “I’m just … I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Then I spotted a Wilson for Governor postcard on his desk. Jason followed my gaze and quickly explained, “My dad put that there.” He walked over and turned the postcard facedown. “I don’t really care who wins,” he added.

  “You should care,” I told him. “Wilson wants to kick kids out of school. Make it impossible for them to go to the hospital.”

  “Only illegal immigrants,” Jason said with a shrug. “They don’t belong here anyway. My dad says they’re costing the California economy. He’s losing a lot of money on some of his businesses, you know.”

  I couldn’t care less about Mr. Yao’s losses. Instead, my chest rose and fell at the way Jason was talking about my b
est friend. “What does ‘belong here’ even mean?” I shot back. “Do we belong here?”

  Jason shrugged again. “Of course we belong here. We flew here.” As if to demonstrate, he took a piece of paper, folded it into an airplane, and flew it at me.

  “So?” I asked, ducking the plane.

  “So that means we had to get visas and stuff. We didn’t just walk over. How would you like it if I just walked into your house whenever I wanted?”

  I crossed my arms.

  “Well, you kind of did. All last year,” I reminded him. “You and your dad just showed up whenever you wanted.”

  “That was different—” Jason started to say. But the rest of his sentence was drowned out by his mother’s voice, calling us from the kitchen.

  “Jason! Mia!” Mrs. Yao shouted.

  Jason leaped up from his chair. “To be continued,” he announced. “I have to go make dinner.”

  I followed Jason into the kitchen, curious about his culinary skills. Were they for real? I couldn’t imagine Jason cooking anything more than a Bored Sandwich: two slices of I’m tired with a thick piece of uninterested in the middle.

  But tired he was not. Once in the kitchen, Jason transformed before my very eyes into a whole other person, a culinary wonder! I watched as he bounced from pot to pan, smelling this herb and sprinkling that spice, his hands chopping, stirring, dicing, and peeling on the marble countertop.

  “The key is to take the pasta out before it gets too soft and immediately run it under cold water so it stops cooking,” he said, turning on the faucet as he got ready to lift the towering, boiling pot. It was twice the size of his head, yet he seemed determined to move it all by himself.

  “Stand back!” he cautioned.

  “No, let me!” his mom offered, running over.

  By the time she came around the counter, Jason had already masterfully lifted and emptied the pot into the colander in the sink.

  While the pasta cooled, he moved on to a thick tomato sauce simmering on the stove. It was made from scratch, except that it wasn’t a traditional spaghetti sauce. Jason had jazzed it up with Asian spices like Sichuan numbing peppers, which he fried in olive oil, filling up the entire house with a wonderful spicy smell, before sprinkling the oil into the sauce. I had to admit, I was impressed. Jason might look like a mad scientist, but it was pretty cool what he was doing!

  “How do you come up with these recipes?” I asked.

  Jason explained as his mom went to set the table, “I just really like food.” He patted his plump tummy. “I like messing around in the kitchen, experimenting with different ingredients, seeing what works, what doesn’t work.” He pointed to the salt shaker, and I handed it to him. “It’s like you and your writing.”

  My face fell a little, thinking about my C. “Yeah, well, lately my writing hasn’t been all that great,” I muttered.

  “What are you talking about? It’s amazing!”

  “Mrs. Welch isn’t exactly a fan,” I admitted sheepishly.

  Jason put the salt shaker down and looked into my eyes. “You can’t do it for other people, you know. You gotta do it for yourself,” he said. I furrowed my eyebrows, not sure what he meant. As if to demonstrate, Jason scooped up a spoonful of his sauce, lifted it to his mouth, and tasted it. “Mmmmmm.”

  I giggled. Just then, the front door opened and my least favorite voice in the world came thundering in.

  “I’m home!” Mr. Yao announced.

  “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. Dinner ready yet?” Mr. Yao called out.

  No! He’s not supposed to be here! I looked around for a place to hide as Jason’s dad came into the kitchen. For a second, I thought about throwing the spaghetti over my head and pretending to be a mop. Too late. Mr. Yao took one look at me and narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  Mrs. Yao walked in and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “You remember Mia.” She took his briefcase and his jacket from him.

  “Do I remember Mia?” Mr. Yao snorted.

  “She’s staying for dinner!” Jason told his dad. Mr. Yao’s face hardened like garlic that’s been left out for too long, and I looked down at my feet.

  “You know what, I’m not really that hungry.…” I started to say.

  “What?” Jason protested, putting down the spatula. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  I felt bad. He’d gone through so much trouble to make all the food.

  Mr. Yao reached for another plate. “No, she’s not,” he said, glancing at me. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  The Yaos’ dining room, like everything else about their house, was massive and over the top. The mahogany dining table had one of those lazy Susans like at Chinese restaurants, except unlike at Chinese restaurants, the Yaos’ table had a white linen tablecloth and silver cutlery and jade chopsticks shined to perfection.

  I looked up at the crystal chandelier hanging just overhead, my mouth opening slightly as I stared at the kaleidoscope of colors. Mr. Yao and Jason took a seat, and Jason’s mom set down the food. I took a bite of Jason’s Asian fusion spaghetti, not quite sure what to expect. The tangy numbing peppers exploded in my mouth. Wow. It was unlike anything I’d ever tasted before. I turned and gave Jason a thumbs-up.

  His dad, on the other hand, wolfed down the delicate pasta like it was cereal.

  “Isn’t this delicious?” Mrs. Yao said. “Would anyone like seconds?”

  It really was spectacular, way better than the free school spaghetti, the only other Italian-style pasta I’d ever had. “You could be a chef!” I said to Jason.

  He grinned.

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Mr. Yao stabbed at the sautéed vegetables with his fork, then pointed it at Jason. “You’re going to be a lawyer or a doctor when you grow up.”

  “Awww… what’s wrong with being a chef?” Jason asked.

  “It’s a step down,” Mr. Yao explained as he chewed. “It’s what your grandfather did when he first came to this country. You know how hard it was for him to claw his way out? Now you want to go back in the kitchen?”

  I could feel Jason’s confidence shrivel like the spinach on my plate. He stared down at his fork.

  Mr. Yao turned to me. “So how’s my motel?”

  I cleared my throat, eager for the chance to brag. “My motel is good. We’ve been full a few nights this summer. No vacancy.”

  “No vacancy?” Mrs. Yao said, impressed. She poured more red wine into her husband’s glass. “Well, that’s a surprise. We never used to get those, did we?”

  Mr. Yao wiped the sauce off his frown with his napkin, then threw it on the table. “That’s because they were too busy plotting against me to do any real work,” he complained, grabbing a piece of bread.

  I felt the anger pooling in my chest. No real work? What did he call all those sleepless nights? The million and one pillowcases my parents changed? My throbbing finger that I nearly rubbed raw making new keys?

  “Dad!” Jason blurted.

  “And let me tell you something,” Mr. Yao continued, ignoring his son. “The circus of people you have owning that place—a bunch of immigrants, half of whom can’t even speak English, random people off the street, the weeklies, and that guy, what’s his name? Hank? It’s never going to work.”

  “Hank now works at the motel as the Director of Marketing,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Director of Marketing?” Mr. Yao exclaimed, spitting out his wine. He threw his hands up. “You know what, I can’t listen to this.”

  I glared at Mr. Yao, feeling my composure unknot. “You’re just mad that we won.”

  He burst out laughing. “You think that just because you had a couple of good nights this summer, you won?” Tiny bits of tomato sauce flew from his mouth and landed on my nose.

  “Dad!” Jason said again, looking panicked.

  “You know nothing about running a business!” Mr. Yao said. “You’re a mere servant masquerading as a boss!”

&nbs
p; The room went silent. I sat with Mr. Yao’s words, feeling the tangy tomatoes sour in my stomach. It got so quiet, I could hear the dinging of the crystals on the chandelier above as they lightly tapped one another.

  Slowly, I put my napkin down and got up from the dinner table.

  “Mia, where are you going?” Jason asked.

  I ignored Jason and went to his room to get my jacket. I couldn’t believe I thought that maybe this time Mr. Yao would be different. That he might view me as an equal, a professional, his industry peer—when clearly, I had never advanced past hired help in his eyes.

  Jason caught up with me as I reached the front door and followed me out to the driveway, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Look, I’m sorry about what my dad said. He hasn’t been himself lately. You gotta understand, all his investments are down—”

  “Good,” I said bitterly. “I hope they all tank.”

  It was mean, but I didn’t care.

  Jason looked down at his feet. His mom and dad called him from the dining room but he just stood there, socked feet glued to the cement, looking so tragically sad that I almost wanted to turn around and go back inside. Maybe the sweetness of his dessert would erase the bitterness of his dad’s words.

  Then I remembered that I didn’t have to put up with Mr. Yao’s words anymore—that was the best part about owning the Calivista—and I kept walking.

  I sat on the back staircase fuming when I got home. Lupe was right, I should have never gone over to Mr. Yao’s house. People don’t change. I heard footsteps coming my way and looked up to see José.

  “You okay?” he asked gently. When I didn’t reply, José set down his tools and took a seat next to me.

  “Is it Lupe?” he asked. “Something happen at school?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s Mr. Yao,” I said. José raised an eyebrow. I groaned and told him what happened at dinner.

  José shook his head. “Lemme tell you a story,” he said.